


didn't you know monsters never die?

by chaoticsandstorm



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Anteiku Café (Tokyo Ghoul), Character Study, Gen, Sunlit Garden, author hates editing, have fun kiddos don't hate it as much as i do, it's canon y'all so i wanted to explore that, kidding i loved it before i had to edit, rize is a washuu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 02:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15921328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticsandstorm/pseuds/chaoticsandstorm
Summary: The floorboards creak beneath your feet no matter how quietly you tread, and you stop, breath caught in lungs, waiting for your inevitable punishment. All you wanted was to read in the garden.(in which rize is a washuu and grows up in a house of death and copper)





	didn't you know monsters never die?

**Author's Note:**

> i'm tired and sick of editing so HERE, HAVE IT, i don't care anymore.
> 
> there's a few warnings for this as there's semi-graphic depictions of violence, very, very vaguely implied csa, and minor sexual harassment. be careful while reading!

You are a child. You are not of mixed lineage, unlike the others. You are pure ghoul. They punish you for this. The floorboards creak beneath your feet no matter how quietly you tread, and you stop, breath caught in lungs, waiting for your inevitable punishment. All you wanted was to read in the garden.

* * *

  _Worthless, inferior, monster._

* * *

 Being a ghoul is tiring. The world is twisted but you cannot see, caught up in navigating the endlessly winding maze of your home. The rules change daily. One moment you are able to sit on your favourite bench in the garden, soaking in the sun as you read. The next you are banned, thrown into a dark room that smells of mould and copper, door slamming shut behind you.

 You cope. Learning the rules is a gruelling, endless struggle, but it is not impossible to do. If you keep your head down and smile prettily, they let you get away with more than you should be able. Being pure is not a blessing, it is a curse, and some days you wish more than anything that you were born just with just the slightest drop of human blood in your veins.

The sun begins to burn instead of healing. The dust collects on your books.

Nimura is a funny boy. He dances and skips ahead of you like a child, twirling around the pavement. Your lips curve with amusement, novel tucked underneath your arm. He brushes leaves off the bench before you sit, bowing with an exaggerated movement. It grates on your nerves, somewhat, but you push it down into the dark recesses of your mind. Nimura is half-human. He is not someone to trifle with. The breeze blows your hair into your face as you talk. Dark, short strands are all that is visible in your vision. Short hair is practical, you know. It gives them one less thing to use against you. Nimura likes your hair, tilts his head as he admires it. He runs one hand through the ends before you pull back, feigning bashfulness while your heart pounds and blackens with anger, because how dare he touch you. Still, a small, miserable part of you is grateful for the attention, however shallow, because Nimura is the only one who talks to you. If all you have to put up with is the grand gestures of a crushing boy? Well, it’s really a no-brainer.

Nimura isn’t angry. The corners of his eyes crinkle like you’ve done something funny, and he pulls his hand back. You sit in silence for a few minutes longer, before you have to return. The sunshine is a precious commodity that you will not be able to appreciate for much longer. Nimura knows this too. It’s why he dared to touch your hair in the first place.

* * *

 The people in charge lead you inside a dark, damp room not unlike the copper-and-mould dungeon. Their blank, staring eyes follow you as the doctor examines you, takes count of your RC cells, the health of your uterus. And just like that, your life is over. You are to become a seedbed, a broodmare. You are going to be locked away forever and never allowed to feel the sunlight on your face, never allowed another glimpse of your precious novels.

That cannot happen.

* * *

 You wait.

Your hair is grown long again in preparation for your role and the check-ups become almost daily. As predicted, the books are taken away and you are not told where. The room smells less of copper than the other. Small blessings, you suppose, but your voice is too raw from screaming to voice the thought.

Nimura visits one day. He skips down the steps with keys jangling around his hips and looks at you with that crooked half-smirk you so hate. You wish, briefly, for a knife to cut it off with.

Nimura Furuta. He claims he can help. His eyes are glinting and that damn smirk says he is up to no good, but there is a solemn air to him that you have never witnessed before. The room smells of death and decay, and your wrists are _so_ sore from cold manacles.

 His status as half-human is perfect for getting you into places you should not go, any other time. For now all it means is that you are fed more regularly and the occasional ray of light is allowed to shine through the cracks in the door.

* * *

Nimura, that funny boy, comes at twilight when you have worn yourself weary with fear and exhaustion. He is alone.

No light spills in when he opens the door. If this was a novel the room would brighten immeasurably, sunlight streaming in and easing your fears. But this is not a novel. The room is dark when he enters, and the room is equally dark when he leaves, grasping your hand with a clammy palm.

You stop for one last look at the house you grew up in. Your room is abandoned, books already coated in dust, and your bed is still perfectly made. There will be no more trips to the sunlit garden, no more waking in the middle of the night to screaming. Things will be better.

* * *

 The first thing you do is cut your hair. No more long, easily pull-able tresses for you. The scissors make pleasing snipping noises as you cut away, locks falling to the floor in perfect rings. You examine your reflection in the mirror, half-expecting Nimura to burst through the door at any moment, crowing triumphantly that he has caught you doing something you are not supposed to, and it was all a joke, you are being sent back immediately.

Your hair now comes to your chin. You lift your head and throw back your shoulders, channelling the woman you know you can be. You push aside the scared child, the one that flinched at smashing glass and the blurred sight of an incoming kagune. You are Washuu Rize and you will not be cowed.

It doesn’t take long to discover the delights of hunting. Of watching the light fade in your prey’s eyes as they bleed out, struggling and crying. You are the powerful one here. You hold all the cards. There is no escape from you, the monster with the spider lily kagune and the red-black eyes. You wear the scent of blood like a fine perfume and gorge yourself on soft, tender flesh until stuffed full, never hungry anymore. Not like in that house. There, you were a ghoul, a broodmare, not worth even the lowest of scraps. The only saving grace was your name, Washuu, but you are no longer a Washuu.

You are Kamishiro Rize. You bathe in blood as a baroness from a Western tale did before you, the one who used it to stay young and beautiful forever. You shower in blood and swim in organs, day in and day out. You evolve into a powerful being, a predator at the top of the food-chain. Kamishiro Matasaka makes sure of that, the father figure you never had.

The other ghouls whisper, watch you with heavy eyes. It isn’t normal, isn’t right, how much you eat. Eventually, Shachi (for that is what strangers call Matasaka) takes notice. He can no longer ignore your appetite. You fight. Shachi shakes his head the entire time, while you scream and spit with fury, eyes blazing red-black-monster. Your limbs shake as you screech, getting into his face in a way no other would dare. How dare he? Who is he to say you are eating wrong, hunting too frequently? It hurts a deep, buried part of your heart you forgot existed. It sinks down, down, down, to the glass doll that house attempted to break.

You leave. You have no ambitions, no plans, no ideas. You hunt and you feast. You delight in the spray of blood, of the slickness of organs, of the adrenaline flooding your veins during a hunt. Your hair grows long. You are strong enough now that no one can get close enough to you to grab it, pull it, use it to force you down and _drag you screaming from your bed-_

Glasses are an unexpected addition to your ensemble. Thin frames, robin red, they complete the cutesy, shy book girl persona you have adopted. Ankle length frocks only complete the illusion. Most days it isn’t a lie. You do, at least, like books. The starving hunter part of you, the inhuman part, the ghoul part, whispers softly into your ears while you look at humans. They are so soft, so fragile. They would never have lasted in that house. They are weak. That is why they must die. It’s the proper hierarchy of things, after all. Only the strong can survive in this twisted world.

* * *

 A man tries to lay his hands on you. He places his palm on your upper thigh, feather-light. You have been talking for a total of fifteen minutes and he is already making a move, regardless of the ring glinting on his finger. You cut off his hands and stuff them down his throat as retribution. After, you find a pearl necklace in his bag, presumably a gift for his wife. You wear it for a month for the sheer thrill of it.

* * *

Life is boring. You hunt and you eat. The media call you ‘the Binge Eater’. It’s a moniker you accept proudly, wear like a crown. Tsukiyama Shuu finds you after that. He asks you to join his gourmet club. It sounds snobby, elitist, just like the Washuus but so very different. They want to take their time eating. Fussing over their delicate palettes. For you, the taste makes no difference. As long as they die screaming and with fear in their eyes, it is enough.

You decline. You part ways.

* * *

 Wandering the wards of Tokyo is not quite satisfying, but it gives you a purpose. You have no need of ambition or vision, unlike some you encounter. Anteiku, for one, is pathetically obsessed with peacekeeping and playing nice with the humans. It grates on your nerves in a way you have not felt in years. Not since Shachi tried to limit your binging, not since the blank faces in that house decided you would spend the rest of your miserable existence as a seedbed. In any case, Anteiku is weak. You are not. That’s why they leave you alone when you encroach on their territory, steal their prey (no matter how many times they claim they don’t hunt, you know it is carefully constructed lie), challenge their ghouls. You are strong. None dare to cross you. As a smug gesture to rub in Anteiku’s face, you target your new victim in their very establishment. The waitress with the purple hair watches with disapproval and a shade of anger, but makes no move to interfere as she cleans cups.

Your prey is a soft looking boy, blushing every time he glances your way. He hides behind his books. Perfect, you think. You have no idea how very wrong you are. You invite him out for a date. His friend, the boy dressed in ridiculously bright colours, watches from his table. His eyebrows furrow when he looks at you and it is clear he doesn’t trust you. Your ears can easily pick up his muttered, almost disguised warnings. Your prey is quick to hush him, and even quicker to agree to the date.

It is almost too easy. It is simple enough to blush and hide your face behind your hair when saying you had a nice time. You clasp your hands demurely and focus on a spot on your shoes. It makes you look fragile, delicate. Even as your heart pounds with the thrill of successfully tricking another victim, things have already gone horrendously wrong in ways you could never have predicted, not even while living under the shadow of the Washuu clan.

Your first mistake is not checking your surroundings. You did not check, so you do not notice the shadows darting above you. Your mind is solely focused on your prey, on the delicious fear in his eyes, on the relief of the dreadful aching keeping your kagune sheathed entails. It has been years since you last thought of the Sunlit Garden, and even longer since you have thought of Furuta Nimura. It is your undoing.

The steel beams crash down in a hail of iron, a chaotic maelstrom that nearly kills the both of you. In the future, when your existence depends solely on Anteiku and you feel the last fine threads of your sanity snapping like rubber bands, you will wish it had succeeded.

The spider lily of your kagune dissolves into nothing beneath the explosive bloom of red. You are trapped, caught as a spider catches a fly. A delicate web was sown for you many many years ago, when you made a promise you did not fully understand in exchange for the stale air of a hidden warehouse, the sunlight on your face, and that precious feeling of having a book in hand.

Furuta Nimura is not easily forgotten. Yet you did. You have forgotten the quiet revelation in that garden all those years ago, the promise, the price tag attached to your freedom.

Everything narrows to one razor-sharp point.

* * *

Rize Kamishiro did not die. She did not live, either.

**Author's Note:**

> this entire thing is a literal dumpster fire so if you spot any glaring errors feel free to point them out. chances are i'm aware but too tired to keep editing, so bear with me please and be kind


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